


Hey! Ho! Let's Go!

by ozonecologne



Series: The Laundromat 'Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Backstory, Catholic School, Gen, Hair Dyeing, Monster-Themed Mini Golf, Pre-Series, Road Trips, The Laundromat Verse, The Punk Squad: Explained
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5717515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozonecologne/pseuds/ozonecologne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a whole half of a story that hasn’t been told yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally Chapter 38 of the original Laundromat 'Verse. I moved it.  
> Warning for slurs, mention of drug use, and blasphemy probably.

Castiel Novak is born in July of 1977. He's a small baby, a quiet baby, with big blinky eyes and a pouty mouth. He read somewhere once that every baby starts out with blue eyes, but it seemed like Castiel started life out knowing exactly who he was. His eyes never changed from the day he was born.

He's the middle child, in between Gabriel and Hael. Castiel’s father isn't around most of the time growing up and Cas doesn't know where he went, only that they aren't supposed to speak about him much and his visits are always long revered. They move from Castiel’s birth place of Pontiac to the city he still currently resides in when he's very small, which presents a whole new set of challenges for a single mother. Naomi had a lot on her plate understandably, what with three kids of her own, a passionate and unrelenting presence in the foster care system, and a revolving door of other family members’ kids in the neighborhood. She thinks the best way to keep them all in line is to instill the fear of God in them, and that means Catholic school.

 

He supposes he should be thankful for the change; he meets his best friend Anna Milton through his sister. They both go to Lady Mary’s Catholic Academy for Girls, and since Hael is the new kid Anna takes pity and assumes charge of her.

He tries to be good, he really does. For a very long time he is convinced that his salvation truly is in the hands of God, that if he believes hard enough and follows the rules exactly his dad will come home and his mother won't be exhausted anymore. He likes going to school, likes the soothing repetition of verse, likes the sound of church bells, likes always being the fastest with his catechism. He loves the church because he believes it loves him back.

He does have doubts. Every child does at one point or another. The contradiction in the teaching of the Bible is glaringly obvious to him, and a lot of things worry him. He believes he can still overcome them, for he is young and inexperienced in ways of the world.

Not everyone in his family holds the same opinion about school. Gabriel has gone a little off the rails since their father had left, pushing the limits of their now nearly authority-less household. He's angry deep down that their father could do that to him, Castiel suspects, and he acts out his anger by swearing a lot and pretending not to give a shit about what happens to anybody except the family he has left. What attracts Cas to her is that Anna is kind of the same, but she's much more subtle about it. Instead of destructive pranks that Gabriel is so proud of, Anna is  _silent:_ a shoplifter that is never caught, the foot in the hallway that trips you and is gone in an instant, the shadow in the back alley with thick smoke clouding all around it. Her bitterness is at least familiar to him, but truthfully, Castiel worries more for his friend than he does for his brother. He never did find out the  _source_ of Anna’s anger, but he was almost certain it was connected to the Academy.

The Novak siblings – all of them, the troublesome lot, plus a Milton – grow up latchkey in the new city, wandering the streets like it's suburbia as young as seven or eight looking for things to do when they get sick of the nuns or come home to an empty house (too often - it's a punch to the gut every time even though it becomes the norm). There's this monster-movie-themed miniature golf course and video arcade on 47th ironically named Heaven where Castiel can play a few rounds of golf with Anna and Gabriel can cheat his way through all the video games and snag himself some prizes (and pizza for the lot of them). It's the height of the 80s, and all the punk kids and stoners who are serious about macabre culture can be found in THAT arcade.

So. Castiel has some early influence.

Daniel and Adina and the rest of their group are the only people he can speak candidly to, without worry that he would say something blasphemous or sinful or uncomfortable, "the wrong thing." Nothing makes the punks uncomfortable. They talk about sex and shit and song lyrics and they all laugh together, cacophonous and wise. They are very… at peace with the world and the way it is, paradoxically for how intent they seem on rejecting it. Castiel admires that, their unashamed confrontation of reality and upset of the normal balance of things at the same time. As if they are in total control of their destinies. The insistence that they don't  _need_ God, because they are enough to change their own lives. He really gravitates towards that – Daniel loans him High Voltage in the eighth grade and he feels expanded. Like there is all this emotion inside him he isn't required to repress, that he is far bigger on the inside than the nuns say God made him.

He still goes to school and he still recites with his peers every morning, but the background music in his head is loud and raunchy, not slow and holy. Michael, a cousin of Castiel’s and a senior, is actually in a band and highly respected around their area as being the coolest of the cool. He's practically a God. His twin brother, Nick, is the object of every girl's affection for how pretty he is and plays bass in their band, currently without name. Castiel spends long hours in History class thinking up names that would look good on a marquee.  _Avenging Angels. Lightbringer. Morning Star. Heavenly Sword._ Something rad and ethereal like that. Gabriel teases that he's being too poetic, that a name like that would never fit in with their 'scene.' That angels aren't compatible with the aesthetic unless they're falling.

The underbelly punk scene flourished in Heaven and was very closely linked in Castiel’s mind with multi-colored flashing lights from the Space Invaders machine and the sound of Bonn Scott wailing over the speakers mixed with the  _click click_  of the air hockey table and the radar beeps and noises from the other games and the rev of a motorcycle in the parking lot. Visually it was the cheap horror shock value of the Halloween-themed mini golf course: the Creature from the Black Lagoon at Hole 3, the coffin with a peeling plastic mechanical hand at Hole 6 with dancing skeletons you had to putt between, the wooden haunted castle you had to hit the ball through a drawbridge for at Hole 8. It's cheap thrills and gross food that give Cas acne and anxiety both.

It's also the Frankenstein leaning over the front gate. He has his jaw perpetually open, yellowing uneven teeth rotting in the air, eyes lidded and shoulders slumped, draped over Heaven's sign. Cas waves at it every time he steps under the arch.

“Why do you do that, Castiel?” Hael asks him on the first day they bring her along.

Cas shrugs. “He looks lonely,” is all he says.

Gabriel was probably right: angels have no place in Heaven.

 

A lot happens in that parking lot over the course of Castiel's adolescence. Gabriel, for one, loses his virginity there in a Porta Potty. He keeps a stash of panties from girls he’s hooked up with since, bunched up in his back pocket. Sometimes they hang out over the edge of his pants, a flash of pink lace or mint green satin, and the pep in Gabriel’s step makes Castiel think he might be doing it on purpose.

Anna also gets in her first fight there. For the life of him he can’t remember what it was about, but he does remember very vividly the image of his best friend throwing this girl into a headlock and slamming her head against the hood of a Chrysler.

Castiel has his first cigarette. He doesn’t cough, not once, and everyone kind of nods like he has now been deemed acceptable. He was thirteen at the time, and mostly still just known as Gabe’s little brother. Michael’s cousin. Anna's friend.

He never says much, even after those formative years. He just kind of tags along, always the little Novak, the kid with the weird name, until Hael decides she’s cool enough to hang around with her siblings too, and then those titles get passed down to her.

Most of them are outright ignored by some of the punk kids at first, deemed posers right from the get go when they start wearing plaid and studs all over everything. The group identity gives them some courage, something to fall back on, even if they don't know who the Slits or the Dead Kennedys are. Michael lets them know that the way to get cred in the circle is in attending basement shows, so they go to see a bunch of shitty high school bands and the occasional community college kid. They do drugs in the basement and listen to crappy music and it’s all for the sake of self-branding. Gabriel’s really into networking, Castiel genuinely likes the music, and Anna's at home in the mosh pits. She leaves with bloody noses and wide smiles and Castiel can’t help but smile back at her because of it – he’s never seen her more alive than when she’s sweaty and smells like someone else’s spilled beer and blood.

By the time she’s a junior at Lady Mary’s, Anna has been involved in five fist fights chasing that very same high and Gabriel has been suspended three times for various things. Castiel, you could say, has a lot to live up to. The Novaks are just always getting into trouble all of a sudden: serving demerits for dyed hair, getting written up for swearing, the list goes on. Being sent home for a uniform violation – safety pins and fishnets are NOT in the school code – is another way of saying, “Go do something else with your afternoon and stop bothering us.” They sneak out the window of the library where detention is being held and head to Heaven to smoke and play putt-putt and eat shitty fast food. They don't care much for the consequences. Naomi yells at them a couple of times, but gives up after a while.

When word finally gets around that Mr. Novak is out of the picture, people leave them alone because they feel sorry for them. They're a little more forgiving of the Novaks' behavior once they find out the tragic backstory behind it, but other people seem to be the only ones bothered by the news. Gabriel makes jokes about the sorry bastard all the time, and Cas keeps quiet. Anna calls him a dick and an asshole, and Cas never says a word. But one fucking sophomore named Zachariah thinks it'll be funny to tease them one time about being so horrible even their own  _father_ couldn’t take it anymore and Castiel, the youngest, the quietest, the least threatening, the know-it-all and all around good Christian boy, clocks him right in the face.

It's the first in-school detention he ever serves. Not the last, of course. But the first always seems like the most important: he has finally earned the Novak name. He sits in the library for the whole thing because he knows what he did was wrong. Justified, but still wrong.

Walking down the hallway people stop and watch them together, not daring to laugh because Anna would kick their asses and probably get Castiel involved in it too. Hael tells him that they're the talk of the school once their backs are turned, and she loves being a celebrity. This one girl, April, keeps hanging around his locker for a month until Anna fakes her out and tells her to beat it. A lot of people assume she and Cas are an item for the longest time, since they spend so much time together, and nobody bothers to correct them just because it’s convenient. The last thing the nuns need to know is that Cas and Anna don't exactly believe in Leviticus.

He doesn’t have a lot of interests other than the basement shows, so Cas gets a job at the Gas-n-Sip to eat up his free time when he’s old enough. He meets a lot of new people there behind the counter in his blue vest. Humanity has always fascinated him, from the unspeakable evil of Catholic school kids to the pathetic dropouts at Heaven to the numbskulls he is forced to serve at the counter every day. He loves every single goddamn one of them. His family’s always found that very strange, except for maybe Anna. She’s always watching him like he’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen, or maybe a bomb about to go off too close to her. It’s partly why they get along so well.

 

Castiel dyes his hair for the first time with her help, hunched over the Miltons’ bathtub while Anna rubs his neck down with Vaseline. His reputation at school is already shot to shit; there’s some relief in that, like he can do whatever he wants without losing anything. It makes him want to push the boundaries as far as they’ll go, test the wings he's grown. Hael watches from the doorway, giggling and bouncing around, muttering things like, “This is so cool!” to Michael, who’s pretending to look disinterested.

He was going for a deep, ocean blue, but the dye doesn’t take very well and ends up turning sort of powdery, pastel, soft. Cas likes it anyway.

“Matches your eyes almost  _exactly_ ,” Anna proclaims, wiping at a spot on his ear that he’d been careless with.

He walks into school that week and a couple of things happen:

First, most of his teachers “spontaneously” redo their seating charts. Castiel is now seated in the back of the classroom in nearly every one. He is no longer called on in class. It’s as if his hand in the air is invisible from the elbow up. He starts being asked to stay after school, handed more assignments and threats of parent conferences and thrown dirty looks in the bathroom. Where he was just feared before, he’s now  _hated_  for being different.

They all don’t seem to understand that he is the same, shy boy from last week who rarely ever acts out. In between the Misfits and the Specials Castiel plays the Mamas and the Papas, he sits by himself at lunch watching bees flit over the weeds; he isn’t nearly as dangerous as everybody seems to think he is.

The facade just makes people uncomfortable, and it makes  _him_ feel powerful in a way he never has been before.

Why not go all the way?

He snags Hael’s eye pencil and lets her do up his eyes one morning by channeling Alice Cooper. He rescues a pair of combat boots from Goodwill. People really do part in the hallways now when he walks down them - not just because he’s a Novak, but because he’s  _Castiel_.

For all the devotion he’s shown them all his life, once he tries to explore his own identity the only authority figures in his life cast him aside. It should discourage him, but it doesn’t. He is confident in God’s teaching and His messages of unconditional love and acceptance, but he doesn’t believe he has to live like his priests want him to in order to be loved by Him. He keeps up the punk thing - “punk,” the word his Headmaster spits at him in his office one afternoon. Definition: n., abomination – because it reminds him to be unafraid of the depths of himself. Reminds whomever he knows to be unafraid of other people and of what the world contains. He's seen it all, but has not grown bitter. He still wears a cross around his neck unironically.

His first tattoo is a tiny, tiny heart on his thumb.

 

There are, of course, some things he doesn't like about the punk community. The blatant and casual misogyny, the lack of interest in critical thought, general apathy, gross hygienic habits, constant peer pressure and egotism, the list goes on. It isn't enough to push him away from the parts that he loves, but it's enough to convince him that doing his own thing with the people he trusts the most (i.e. his family) is probably better in the end. 

Castiel lives in his little bubble all the way into early adulthood, relying only on his siblings and his cousins for company and protection. The day he graduates, Gabriel throws all his shit in a van he claims he's rented and tells him they're going on a cross country road trip, and they're improvising. Anna's got that wild look in her eyes and Nora has told him that his job at the Gas-n-Sip will be waiting for him when he gets back. They become more isolated and closer than ever. It’s all worked out for him so far; what more could he need, really?

It's a few good months of rock shows and drugs and sleeping on couches and Castiel doesn't feel like he could ever see anything that would surprise him again. When they get back, they're not exactly welcomed with open arms, but that's to be expected. Cas heads down to Heaven for the sake of nostalgia and maybe a game of Galaga, but that piece of shit Zachariah is hanging out over by concessions, circled by his loathsome gang of skinhead cronies. Castiel is immediately on guard, thinks they might be trying to start some shit with them again, but on closer inspection he notices that Zach is clutching his nose, red sticky blood chunks oozing out between his fingers as Raphael laughs.

“I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna kill that laundry boy faggot. Broke my fucking nose, I’ll show him,” Zachariah spits, crimson streaking across his lips.

Castiel raises one eyebrow and tries not to look like he’s eavesdropping. Somebody broke Zach’s nose? Good, might as well serve what was coming to him.

“We are gonna head out tonight,” Zach says, assertively pointing down the street and going a little red in the face. “The laundromat on King’s Road. We’re gonna trash that fucker.”

Castiel slips out of the parking lot and forgets about Galaga, combat boots clunking against the pavement. He smells like he hasn't showered in six weeks because he hasn't, and he's tired and his ears are still ringing from the series of shows he'd endured on the road. Still, he walks the six blocks to the laundromat on King’s so he can beat Zach there, and takes in the grungy exterior.

It’s a batallion of a building. He doesn’t understand how something called “Winchester Laundromat Cleaners” could possibly be so mean and dirty from the outside.

He steps through the doors, bleached blue hair fucked up and wind blown, and looks across the room.

He meets a boy with soft hands and green eyes, and Castiel knows right then that he is lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH I am just. I am so in love with gentle!spiritual!bamf!punk!Cas. Like a lot. Like, so much. THUMB HEARTS, YOU GUYS.  
> I hope this explains his life a little better! I know I haven't given Cas the depth he deserves in here, so this is long overdue. Thanks to Hairstyles of the Damned for giving me ~*ideas*~  
> Come talk to me about punk!Cas headcanons on my [tumblr.](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [mnwood](deancasheadcanons.tumblr.com) asked me: here's a question. what do the punks do for a living? is it drugs? it’s drugs, right? why are they always just hangin around the laundromat don't they have JOBS i need 2 know their jobs
> 
> I’ve thought about it.

Before they move in together, before they start making out with any regularity, before Dean even really considers them _friends_ , he makes a point to get to know Castiel as best he can. Not just anyone is allowed to loiter on his property, you know.

He eyes Castiel up from where he’s sitting in the corner of the ‘mat – harmlessly, unassumingly, curled up smaller than Dean knows he really is – watching one of the washers spin. That’s it. He’s got his hands folded up in his lap and he’s watching the suds and clothes roll around in the drum. He barely even blinks, like this is the most important thing he’ll be doing all day.

Hell, maybe it is.

Dean walks over when he gets a minute, and Castiel is still sitting there. Gabriel is flirting with someone a few tables over and Gadreel is skimming a magazine. The rest of the crew is gathered in some loose configuration of a circle, chatting intermittently and passing snacks around the rest of the time.

Dean knocks the toe of Castiel’s boot with his own. “Hey,” he says, gruffly.

Castiel finally manages to tear his eyes away from the washing machine. “Hello, Dean,” he replies.

Dean purses his lips. “You just going to sit there all day?” he asks. Straight to the point. (That’s something that Cas has always liked about him, but Dean doesn’t know that yet.)

Castiel shrugs. “Not all day. But most of the day, maybe. Why? Should I move?”

A hand passes over Dean’s eyes. “I should be charging you people rent. Don’t you have jobs or something?”

“Of course we do,” Gadreel pipes up in the background.

“No,” Castiel says at the same time.

Dean frowns. Considers this. _It’s probably drugs,_ he thinks to himself. _You don’t want to know._

“Ok,” Dean announces, and walks away.

He privately decides that he’ll continue to treat the punks like he’s dealing with wild animals: friendly, but wary. Maybe they’re employed, maybe they contribute something to society, maybe they don’t.

Ok. Dean doesn't need to know.

 

Later that same night, Gadreel walks back to the apartment that he shares with his family and heads for the bathroom. He peels off his denim vest along the way and flicks on the single, fluttering light in the small space.

As per his usual nightly routine, he drops to his knees beside the bathtub. The toes of his combat boots hit the porcelain edge of the toilet, and his head wobbles dangerously close to the sink. The hemp bathmat barely does anything to protect his knees from the cold, hard tile floor, but if he takes a wide enough stance he can manage to distribute his weight evenly enough that the ache won’t set in for another 20 minutes and his head won’t knock against the hard sink corner.

He turns on the tap and adjusts the temperature. While he waits for it to warm up, he crosses his chest and says his nightly prayers with his eyes closed and his head bowed.

Once the water has heated up enough, he dips his head under the water and lets it fall over him, cascade down into his eyes. He reaches for the shampoo without even looking, and squirts exactly the right amount into his palms. Slowly, he works it through his spiked hair, clearing out the tacky gel and sticky hairspray. He repeats the process several times until his hair is once more limp and soft, at which point he shuts off the water and puts a towel around his neck.

He shakes his head, cleans the water out of his ears, and walks to his closet.

He picks out a long-sleeved gray shirt that will hide most of his tattoos (there’s nothing he can do about the one on his neck), some simple jeans without holes in them, and his blue vest. The name tag reads GADS in bright red letters. He straightens its position before he slips the whole thing on.

He goes back to the bathroom to check his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. He looks good. Professional as ever. He folds and hangs up the towel over the edge of the shower, and ties his hair back with one of the hair ties that Hael has left on their sink.

He shuts off the bathroom light. He grabs his phone, his wallet, and his keys. He writes a note for Castiel on a spare laundromat receipt that there is leftover pasta in the fridge, and sticks it on his cot. He walks through the door again and locks it behind him.

He walks four blocks from the apartment and turns through doors of the Gas ‘N Sip, with their cheery welcoming jingle. All of the lights are on, bright and washed-out fluorescent. Some flicker every now and again, but Gadreel hardly notices. Nora greets him when he walks through the door, and he waves politely before heading to the back to clock in.

He straightens up the shelves and tunes out the background music that Nora likes to play. He rings up a late night purchase: a pack of menthols and beef jerky. Someone, he is informed later, has thrown up in the men’s bathroom earlier today, so Gadreel rolls the mop bucket back and deals with it. He puts on a new pot of coffee and reheats the old nachos in the display case. Nora leaves for the night, and he is alone again. He watches the security camera footage like television for the rest of his shift. A jittery teenager with a tiny handgun held them up a few weekends ago; he’d rather not have to de-escalate another situation like that tonight.

He will always be grateful to Castiel for getting him this job. It’s humble work, but it makes him feel useful. He has somewhere to go, and he has time to himself to think.

He has to wait for the morning shift guy to come replace him. Gadreel clocks out well into the night, just before the sun is supposed to come up, and then starts on the short walk back home. Castiel will probably want to go back to the laundromat later in the day; he’ll opt out this time to catch up on his sleep.

He keeps his head down as he walks, hands tucked neatly away in the pockets of his big leather jacket. He passes a few people – some slumped over against walls sleeping, some on their way to work. Some nod at him as they pass. Some avert their eyes and swerve out of his way when they see him coming, shadows under his eyes from the neon signs backlighting him like a halo and mouth grim from hours on his feet in the dark and the quiet.

 

At the same time that Gadreel is walking to his job at the gas station, Hael is walking through the door of the apartment with Anna in tow.

“I _think_ it’s here,” Hael mutters to herself, lifting up blankets and discarded clothes, sorting through the wreckage of the common area. Anna carefully starts removing a few of the paintings from the walls.

Hael pops back up after having dived under the ratty couch. “Ha!” she crows victoriously. She hoists a high school biology textbook with a green cover over her head and grins at Anna. “Got it. Ready to go when you are.”

Anna stacks the three paintings she has taken down from the walls and sets them on top of the small television set. “Hang on. I want to wrap these up,” she tells Hael, walking into the kitchen.

Hael hums. “Right. Because you’re a _serious artist_ now,” she teases. She can’t help the little bit of pride that leaks into her voice.

Anna pokes her head around the corner and smirks at her, carrying a roll of plain brown paper that Gabriel normally uses for shelving and a ball of string. She also shoves a tiny plastic bag of something into her front pocket. “I’ve been getting all kinds of offers since my gallery exhibit last week. The work will dry up now that it’s closed, though, so you won’t have to put up with my brooding ways for much longer,” she promises.

Hael frowns and picks at her nails. “You never should have dropped out of art school.”

“And you never should have dropped out of _high school_ , but here we are: selling art and tutoring high school kids despite ourselves,” Anna quips.

Hael grins, shark like.

“Look, I have to meet this guy at Moseley’s in like ten minutes. Could you hurry it up there, Picasso? I’m getting a free dinner out of this,” she complains, when Anna starts to fidget with the edges of her wrappings.

Anna rolls her eyes. “Alright, fine. This is good enough.”

They set off into the fading daylight together, Hael with her backpack and Anna with her stack of paintings. They walk close enough for their shoulders to brush, one intimidating wall of sharp eyes and bitchface on the sidewalk. Moseley's Diner is a common teen hangout, but they never have to worry about anyone messing with them there. Most of them have successfully been charmed by Hael and are too scared of Anna to even think about causing trouble.

Anna pats the baggie in her pocket as they approach the diner. She reels Hael in with her free hand and kisses her on the head.

“Be safe. Call Cas if you need anything,” she says.

Hael nods. “I will. Good luck with your sales,” she says. She smirks a little. “Both of them.”

Anna sighs and shakes her head fondly. “Enjoy your date.”

“Please. He’s way too young for me.”

Anna snorts, and they part. Hael to meet the unlucky bastard that’s booked her for a tutoring session, and Anna to the bus stop to catch the bus uptown to meet her buyer.

Before she heads to the bus stop, Anna darts across the street where some of the aforementioned pimply teenagers are hanging out, raucously laughing.

She nods to one guy in a pulled-low beanie. “Andy, right?” she asks.

The guy nods, and smiles at her. “What’s up, Anna!”

She pulls the little plastic baggie out of her pocket and hands it to him. “Six grams,” she confirms.

Andy grins wider. “Dude, right on. And _this_ is for you,” he cheers, handing over a wad of cash.

Anna counts through it quickly and smiles at him. “Thank you. Let me know if you need anything else from me.”

“Oh, will do, man. Hey, you want to stay and smoke with us?” Andy asks her.

She shakes her head ruefully. “I can’t today, I’ve got to meet a client.”

“Right on, right on,” Andy nods. “Have a good one, then!”

“You too.”

And _then_ Anna heads to the bus stop.

The sun has gone down. A few vacant stares meet hers as she steps up into the bus and pays her fare. She takes a seat near the back and pulls up her hoodie, clutching her paintings so tight to her chest that the corners of the canvas are sure to leave tiny marks on her skin. A man is asleep on the bench seat across the aisle from her. The bottle that's hanging loose in his grip is wrapped in the same crinkled brown paper as her paintings.

She stares out the window and silently counts the stops as the night, and her bus, rolls on.

 

At the same time that Hael is walking into Moseley’s diner and Anna is selling Andy Gallagher weed, Balthazar’s phone starts ringing. He’s got a last minute booking, if he can get a ride and make it there on time.

He grins and recites the address to himself under his breath so that he’ll be able to remember it.

He excuses himself from the company at the laundromat and jogs to the bar down the street, night air chilling on his skin. He winks to a pair of girls walking past him.

“Good evening, Donald,” Balthazar teases as he slides up to the bar. “Tequila, please.”

Donnie, who is rubbing down a glass with a rag, just barely manages not to roll his eyes. “I hope you’re not doing business in my bar, Balthazar,” he says wearily. He reaches for the tequila.

Balthazar waves a hand. “Oh no, no, darling, don’t fret. This clientele is much too low-class for me, no offense meant,” he says.

Donnie’s mouth lifts in half a smile and he shakes his head. “I suppose you’re headed somewhere else for the night then,” he muses.

Balthazar nods. “Oh, yes. Elysian Fields up by the river, you know the one? Just popped in here for a bit of liquid courage,” he tells him, greedily grabbing at the glass Donnie sends his way. “I love to get the party started early.”

“I actually knew that about you,” Donnie teases. He catches the eye of a few people at the other end of the bar. “Lemme know when you need a refill,” he says, knocking his knuckles against the bar top.

“Will do!” Balthazar cheers.

He takes a few shots and leaves money on the table for Donnie before skipping off to the bathroom. He dabs some water on his face, fixes his hair, pops an Altoid. He checks the clock on his way out and nods to himself; he’s right on time, meaning he’s fashionably late.

He takes his time walking to the hotel, waving here or there to someone standing on the opposite corner or sneering at anyone that gets in his way. His bright eyes burn blue in the smoggy city light, his white smile gleams underneath the dim street lamps.

The doorman at the Elysian waves him in with a nod. Balthazar slips him a twenty without pausing.

He takes the elevator up to the right floor, and breathes deeply through his nose on the way up. He rolls his shoulders as he walks down the corridor, identical rooms all around, soft laughter and the sound of a bass booming muffled through the thin walls, and pauses in front of the right door.

He knocks.

A pretty woman with dark hair opens up the room, and leans against the doorframe with hooded eyes. Balthazar just smiles.

“Hi,” he purrs. “Did someone order an escort?” he asks.

The woman bites her lip. “Why don’t you come on in and find out,” she giggles. She hooks a hand into Balthazar’s jacket and yanks him into the hotel room, closing the door behind her.

“The stripper’s here!” she announces to the room at large. There must be at least twelve people in here, all in varying states of giddiness and intoxication.

Immediately, two sets of hands descend on Balthazar and ease him out of his coat, mouths attaching to his jaw and, and he already feels himself loosening up. It’s warm and softly lit in the room and this crowd is a fun one, he can tell already. Everybody's laughing. The fingers on his sternum tickle and he feels lighter than air.

“Somebody bring this man some whiskey!” someone crows from the sidelines.

God, does he love his job.

 

At the same time that Balthazar is downing his first shot of whiskey with his ménage a twelve, Gabriel is wiping his hands on the front of his pants. The bottle of Windex that he’s got in his hands is a little leaky at the nozzle, so it drips into his palms whenever he lifts it. He tsks at the thing.

“Now let’s not get excited,” he scolds it. “We still have to do the entire math department and then who even _knows_ what the girls’ bathroom looks like tonight.”

He raises the bottle again and rubs down the frosted pane, right over the first C in _Community College._ When he’s satisfied with the shine and successfully tamps down on the impulse to frost it up again with his breath, Gabriel puts the bottle of Windex back on his cart and wheels it down the hallway.

Schools are creepy at night. This is just a fact of life. The lights go out, the grates are drawn, and some doors get locked while others don’t. Gabriel, as head janitor, is in charge of putting the whole place to sleep. The supposed creepiness doesn't faze him at all.

Tonight, Gabriel whistles to himself as he mops the floor. He slides down them when they’re freshly wiped and reenacts that scene from Risky Business with his mop, transitioning almost too quickly into the lift from Dirty Dancing. If he slips and rams his hip into the lockers a few times in the process, at least no one is around to see.

When he spritzes down the bathroom mirrors, he squirts cleaning product in the shape of a penis. He chuckles to himself as he wipes it down, making faces at his reflection.

He picks up trash in the aisles of the auditorium, and pretends he’s a basketball superstar as he shoots it into the trash can he places halfway up the aisle. “Woo!” he shouts to himself, voice echoing around the empty stage. Great acoustics in here.

When he feels that he’s done a passable job, he unzips his navy jumpsuit and wheels his cart back to the janitor’s closet where it lives until he comes to retrieve it again. He rubs at his eyes a little bit and yawns. He probably accidentally inhales some chemical particles that he shouldn’t be ingesting. If he gets sick, he can always sue. That would probably pay better than the salary he currently gets anyway.

Gabriel swaggers out of the school building, twirling his keys, and turns the corner, heading in the opposite direction of home.

He’s still whistling to himself, some off-tune version of Asia or something, and hardly sees a soul on the street. If he does pass someone, he’ll smile and nod. It usually weirds people out enough that they’ll keep their distance.

Once he gets far enough away from the community college, he starts passing more interesting characters. The red light district is alive and booming this time of night, unlike the school building he’s just finished putting to bed. A few girls wave to him from the doorways of candy shops or from the mouths of alleys, he calls out doleful apologies and sincere wishes for good luck as he goes along his merry way.

The studio that Gabriel is headed for is squished between a bakery that specializes in phallic party favors and a tattoo parlor. Lucky for him, all of his interests tend to overlap. He climbs the stairs and shakes out his hair, bracelets jingling as he skips up and up and up.

He bursts through the doors with a predictably sunny disposition. “Who’s ready to make some _magic_ happen?” he cheers.

The girls lounging on furniture in the cast room echo the sentiment with high-pitched cheers, but his camera man just looks contrite.

“You’re late,” Baldur complains.

Gabriel shrugs as he shucks off his coat. “I had other things to do. Alright, quiet on the set! Casa Erotica 8, take 1.”

 

At the same time that Gabriel is calling “action” on the set of his amateur porn film, Nick is slapping Mike on the back with a flat palm.

“Pretty mild crowd tonight,” he says offhandedly, close to Michael’s ear so to be heard over the pounding music.

Michael nods. “Tipsy sorority girls out for their twenty first’s,” he says back, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Nick laughs at him, crinkling his eyes up. “Loosen up a little, bro! Have some fun!” he yells, before slapping him again and walking back towards the stage.

Michael sighs and turns to face forward again. “ID please,” he says, bored, to a young girl stumbling in heels too tall for her. Once she manages to wrestle the thin plastic card out of her clutch, he shines a light on it and shimmers it underneath. He reads the birthday bolded in red above her photo.

“Hold your hands out with your palms down,” he instructs.

He takes a marker out of the breast pocket of his black polo and marks a big X on the backs of both girl’s hands. “You are not allowed to consume alcohol indoors. If any other security personnel see you with a drink in your hands you _will_ be asked to leave. Please keep an eye out for fire exits and keep your belongings close to you. Coat check is downstairs,” he recites.

The girl says thank you and darts past him into the club. He repeats the process for the next one. And the next. And the next.

God dammit, some people get all the luck. His brother is working stage duty, keeping drunk college kids away from the live act and getting girls’ phone numbers left and right. He gets to drink everything he confiscates when management isn't watching too closely. Michael sighs. Only six more hours of this and then they're allowed to go home.

Nick catches him again when he’s on his break, heading for the bathroom. He pulls up to the urinal immediately on Michael’s left; he scowls and intimidates the only other person there out of the men’s room before he opens his mouth.

“So,” he drawls, his voice already hoarse from yelling over the music. “We’re still working for the Bevells this weekend, right?”

Michael shakes himself and zips back up. “We’re mowing their lawn,” he confirms.

Nick snorts. “Right, ‘mowing their lawn,’” he jokes, putting actual air quotes around the phrase. “What are we _really_ doing?”

Michael sighs blithely as he runs his hands under the water. “We’re escorting some guests of theirs to the basement,” he replies.

Nick grins. “A little light torture, huh? What do they want? Pump ‘em for information?”

Michael sighs. “Most likely. You think you can handle it?”

Nick shrugs and leans against the hand dryer. “No problem. You know I’m an artist with a blade.”

“But not so good at following instructions,” Michael hisses. “You’re too rough with them,” he scolds.

The hand dryer whirs to life behind Nick. “Oh, what do you care?” he scoffs. “We make a lot of money from these rich types that don’t like to get their hands dirty.”

Michael shuts off the water, hesitating.

“I want out,” he says.

Nick frowns. “What do you mean, out?”

He turns to face his brother. “I don’t want to be muscle for hire anymore. It doesn’t… feel right.”

Nick’s eyes narrow and darken a little. “Hm, that’s funny. I thought we were in this together, _bro_.”

Michael grits his teeth, but his eyes soften. “We are. You know that I’ll always have your back. Just… quit testing the limits, ok? Like we talked about. Discreet.  _Control_. We don’t want to hurt anyone too bad.”

Nick’s face relaxes, and he reaches a hand out to clasp Michael’s shoulder. “Sure, buddy,” he says sweetly. “I’ve got this.”

All Michael can really do at this point is believe him.

“Ok,” he decides. He laughs, suddenly. “You know, they call you The Devil in the inner circles,” Michael tells him. “Devil and the Angel.”

Nick laughs too. “Good cop, bad cop. I like it. We should get matching jackets.”

“What part of 'discreet' don’t you understand?”

“Hey,” someone calls through the door. “Break’s over! Get back to work.”

Nick rolls his eyes and cracks his knuckles. “Alright. Back to the grind.”

Michael nods and smoothes down the collar of his polo. “Yep. Round two.”

The brothers are the menacing shadows in doorways that you try not to look at as you speed past. Two coins flipped on their heads once the sun goes down. Your eyes will look for them when you’re alone in a dark alley. Tomorrow, they will be back at the laundromat with their friends and their family, the chosen few that are spared the dark side of them, and they will be calm and cleansed of the things they do in the dark.

They go back to work.

 

At the same time that Mike and Nick are fighting in the bathroom of a nightclub, Castiel is sitting in front of a washing machine on the floor of Winchester Laundromat Cleaners, watching the suds and the clothes roll around in the drum like it’s the most important thing he’ll do all day.

“Guess it’s just us,” Dean says.

Castiel looks up and blinks. “I can go if you want,” he offers, though it’s not really what he wants.

Dean shakes his head and looks down at his boots. “Nah, it’s fine. You want to like, play cards or something?”

Castiel smiles. “You aren’t busy?”

“Nah, I can take some time,” Dean says, already turning and heading for the back.

Castiel unfolds himself from the floor and approaches the counter, smoothing his hands along the red laminate surface.

Dean comes back with the playing cards and leans his elbows on the counter, grunting a little when his back pops. “Ok. You ever play blackjack before?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Teach me.”

Dean looks up and frowns. “Dude, how much time do you _have_? You sure you don’t have anywhere else to be?”

Castiel smiles and thinks of his siblings scattered across the city, doing things they love and that help them grow. Things that make them laugh to themselves and smile at strangers and feel pride in their hearts and test them to be better, stronger people.

It’s kind of how Castiel feels when he’s here, in the laundromat, with Dean.

“No, I’d rather be here,” Cas tells him.

Dean smiles and deals out the cards, and they play on well into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got more questions? Come give me prompts or visit me on [tumblr!](ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


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